


Sparring Practice

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Follow the North Star [18]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 14:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Fine,” Roman says. “Obviously this situation’s kind of—”“Fucked up?” Harry asks.“Unconventional,” Roman says.





	Sparring Practice

Sitting out a fighting major in the box, Roman starts to question whether meeting Harry after the game is actually a good idea. It isn’t the major itself — Stone’s hit on Fitzy was late and high and Fitzy’s fine but you don’t just let someone get away with that shit — more the fact that for a good solid half minute between Roman getting escorted to the box and the puck dropping, Harry glared at him from the bench, and Roman entertained a whole lot of doubt about what the hell he was thinking, believing they could talk this thing out. 

Because the thing is, Roman doesn’t actually know what he’s going to _say_. He knows that the situation right now, Harry glaring at him every time he sees him, isn’t working, not now and sure as shit not long-term, especially because while the room has its share of oblivious idiots, and Dev will happily pretend to be one of them if whatever’s going on isn’t hurting anyone, no way that won’t be noticed. Harry’s not exactly subtle about the death glaring, and while he’s not shy about throwing scowls around in general, eventually someone’s going to figure out that they’re always getting aimed Roman’s way and start to wonder why that is.

Roman can’t spend too much time thinking about what to say, anyway, has long since learned how to drop his baggage off before his blades hit the ice. Usually he’s pretty good at keeping it out of the room, too, though right now his baggage is right there _in_ the room with him, so that’s not really working. He’ll figure it out. He always does.

They lose, which isn’t a good thing because they fucking _lose_ , but is a good thing because no one’s interested in going out tonight, so Roman doesn’t have to dodge any invitations to go out with some ‘Nah I have to go have a talk with my boyfriend’s boyfriend because apparently that’s what my life is right now’. 

No one’s interested in interviewing him, so he grabs a quick shower, checks in on Fitzy after he’s done his press shit. 

“I’m fine, worrier,” Fitzy says. “Between you and Mike, I swear.”

“Between me and Mike sounds like something you’ve thought about before,” Roman says.

Fitzy looks completely delighted. “Findlay, Roman just sexually harassed _me_!”

Roman can see Finds put his face in his hands out of the corner of his eye. Roman owes the poor guy a drink sometime soon.

“Speaking of sexual—” Fitzy starts.

“Nope,” Roman says.

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” Fitzy complains.

“I know enough,” Roman says, and makes a point of backing away, which gets one of Fitzy’s disturbingly evil laughs, and almost knocks right into Harry, who’s just gotten out of the shower. Roman follows him over to his stall, leans on the wall and waits for him to pull on his underwear and pants, because it seems rude to talk to a man in a towel. Not that he doesn’t do it every single day, but the conversations are usually a little less loaded.

Harry, usually no more modest about nudity than any of the rest of them, which is to say, not at all, pulls on his underwear under his towel and doesn’t drop it until he’s got his pants up. Any other day Roman would chirp the shit out of him for it, but it doesn’t seem like the time.

“Meet me in the garage?” Roman asks. “Twenty minutes?”

“I thought we weren’t doing the fight club thing,” Harry says, reaching for his shirt. “They have cameras everywhere, for the record, if you were planning on jumping me.”

Roman rolls his eyes. “Meet by my car,” he says. “You know which one it is?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Why?”

“Pretty sure you already agreed to come out with me tonight,” Roman says.

“What’s with the cloak and dagger shit?” Harry says. “You miss the Rookie Detectives so badly you can’t walk out with me like a normal person?”

“You want to freak Connie the fuck out?” Roman asks. 

Harry crosses his arms, gets his chin up. “What?” he asks. “Now you’re hiding shit from—”

“Seriously, look at him right now,” Roman says, and Harry glances over to where Connie’s watching them, lip between his teeth and eyes worried. “You know he has anxiety, you really want to make that worse?”

“Whatever,” Harry mutters, but then says. “Fine. Twenty minutes. Fuck off.”

Roman goes back to his stall, fiddles on his phone for a bit, because he’s already ready, but considering Harry’s still shirtless, his hair dripping all over the place, he’s going to need those full twenty minutes, and Roman would rather spend it here than in the gasoline scented garage, getting weird looks from the guys for loitering by his car.

Someone sits down beside him, and Roman knows it’s Connie before he even looks up, both from the knee nudging his and from the anxious energy he’s giving off. 

“Everything okay?” Connie asks.

Roman squeezes his knee. “All good, Sweetheart.”

“Sure?” Connie asks.

“Sure,” Roman says. 

“Okay,” Connie says, still looking concerned, this furrow between his eyebrows Roman wants to press his lips to. He squeezes his knee again instead.

“How about Thursday?” Roman asks. “For dinner.”

Connie smiles a little shyly. “Thursday works,” he says.

“I’ll make a reservation, then,” Roman says. “Italian sound good to you?”

“Perfect,” Connie says, and knocks his knee against Roman’s.

Roman heads out when Harry seems mostly ready, only gets a look from Fitzy, which is less suspicious and more smirky, like he knows something, or thinks he knows something, before Harry shows up.

“Are you making me come in the car with you, or what?” Harry asks, hands shoved in his suit pants.

“Nah, just can’t trust anything said in the locker room not to get overheard,” Roman says.

“You’re so fucking paranoid,” Harry says.

“I gave you Rookie Detective badges and you guys fucking trespassed on Fitzy’s property,” Roman says. “I don’t think I’m paranoid.”

“That was Victor’s fault,” Harry says, which Roman has heard a billion times before and has believed since the first time, because Victor was…gung-ho about the role. “Where to?”

Roman names an Irish pub near his place, one that doesn’t tend to have a North Stars watching clientele, and Harry knows it and doesn’t argue, so Roman doesn’t have to name any of the five back-up places he had in case Harry was going to be particularly obstinate tonight. He gets there first, orders them both a pint, a plate of assorted apps, because he’s hungry and if Harry doesn’t want any he can polish them off himself. The pints come before Harry does, and another five minutes pass before Roman starts drinking his beer, five more after that before he pulls out his phone.

 _what the fuck dude_ , Roman texts, hitting send right before Harry walks in the door.

“Thought you bailed on me,” Roman says.

Harry grimaces. “Ran into Evan on the way to my car,” he says. “I couldn’t really tell him I was in a hurry and couldn’t talk without, you know.”

“Fair,” Roman says. “I got Smithwick’s, if that’s cool. You like ales, right?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Harry says. 

“I ordered some apps, they should be here in a minute,” Roman says. 

“Cool,” Harry says.

“You know you can sit down, right?” Roman asks, amused, because Harry’s still hovering beside his seat like it’ll bite him.

Harry sits down finally, shrugging his coat off in a convulsive little movement then taking a huge sip of beer.

“What?” he says, when he swallows. “I’m not allowed to catch up?”

“Didn’t say anything,” Roman says.

“You were thinking it,” Harry says, taking another gulp before he puts it down, at a level almost identical to Roman’s pint. Roman’s kind of impressed at the accuracy.

The apps serendipitously arrive, and Harry’s apparently as hungry as Roman is, starting in on chicken wings while Roman takes a mozzarella stick, polishing them off before Roman can even try one. He’s got hot sauce in the red-gold stubble above his mouth, and Roman thinks about letting him leave it there in chicken wing karma, but hey.

“Sauce on your face,” he says.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, wiping it off. “You wanted to talk about Evan.”

Roman looks around, but it’s quiet. They’re just far enough from the arena that no after game crowds are making their way here to commiserate about the loss, and it’s a Monday night, so it’s just them, a guy reading a book and idly eating a plate of nachos, the bartender, and the guy who’s been sitting at the bar hitting on her since before Roman got there. She’s mentioned her boyfriend twice, loudly enough for Roman to catch, and the guy’s not taking the hint, so Roman’s keeping half an eye out in case someone needs to step in. It’s about as private as public gets, which is why Roman picked this place. Well, that and the mozzarella sticks.

“Kind of a weird situation,” Roman says.

“Kind of weird you kissed the guy I’m dating, yeah,” Harry says.

“I wouldn’t have kissed him if I knew he was in a relationship,” Roman says, picking apart the last mozzarella stick.

“So it’s on me, then,” Harry says. “Or are you saying it’s on Evan?”

“It’s not on anyone,” Roman says. “Can you get off the defensive?”

“No,” Harry says, scowling.

“Fine,” Roman says. “Obviously this situation’s kind of—”

“Fucked up?” Harry asks.

“Unconventional,” Roman says, and Harry snorts. “But we can’t let it fuck with the team.”

“You think we can control that?” Harry asks.

“I think we can minimize it,” Roman says.

Harry takes another sip of beer. “How?” he grits out after a minute, like it hurts to ask.

“Well, you could stop trying to kill me with your eyes,” Roman says, and gets a glare in response, unsurprisingly. 

“It doesn’t work anyway,” Harry says. “You’re obviously still alive.”

“I’m durable,” Roman says, and Harry lets out a surprised sounding laugh.

“Not asking you to quit to avoid the Chalmers curse or whatever,” Roman says. “You think the guys won’t pick up on it, you’re wrong. Hell, Fitzy noticed last _week_.”

“I’ll try to cut down,” Harry says. “But if you’re all fucking over—”

“That’s another thing,” Roman says. “Team time, hands off.”

“Giving Evan a say in any of this?” Harry asks.

“Pretty sure he’d agree on this one,” Roman says. “That’s pretty basic if you don’t want the entire team to know before the week’s up.”

“So now I can’t touch him,” Harry says.

“Not saying you can’t touch him,” Roman says. “Or that I won’t. Just — touch him like you’d touch anyone else on the team, keep it professional.”

“I don’t touch anyone else,” Harry says.

“Well,” Roman says with a shrug. “I do.”

“Go find one of them to fuck then,” Harry mutters.

“You think this is about fucking for me?” Roman asks. “Seriously?”

“Like I haven’t seen you mentally undressing him for weeks,” Harry says.

Roman doesn’t point out that’s pretty unnecessary when Evan’s literally been undressing in front of him on a regular basis. Besides, it’s not relevant, because Roman doesn’t look, not since Juniors, when it became less comparing himself to others and more — well, it didn’t feel right to, so he stopped.

“I care about him,” Roman says. “Presumably you do too, if this isn’t some fucked up extension of the shitting on him you’ve been doing for over a year.”

“Fuck you,” Harry snaps. “What, you’re the only one who can give a shit about him?”

“I’m pretty sure I said the opposite of that,” Roman says, and can practically _see_ Harry cycling back through the conversation.

“Well I do,” Harry says finally. “Care about him.”

“Good,” Roman says.

“Good?” Harry asks. “ _Good_?” 

Roman shrugs. “You think I’d prefer you don’t give a shit about him? Prefer you jerking him around?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Harry says, fierce sounding.

“Like I said,” Roman says. “Good.”

“So you’re just fine with all this,” Harry says.

“Not really,” Roman says. “But, you know, what Connie wants.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, staring at the table before finishing his pint and picking at the edge of a piece of the calamari neither of them have touched, and Roman’s at a loss for what to say.

“You guys want another one?” the bartender asks, with the best sort of timing.

“You want one?” Roman asks, and Harry shrugs aggressively, which probably means yes.

“Sure,” Roman says. “Two more. That guy at the bar bugging you?”

“Nah, he’s a regular,” she says, then, quieter, “He’s harmless, really, just annoying.”

“He stops being harmless, you let me know, okay?” Roman asks.

“Thanks,” she says. “I’ll get your drinks.”

“What was that about?” Harry asks.

“Shithead isn’t taking ‘I have a boyfriend’ for an answer,” Roman says.

“Oh,” Harry says. “Well, if you need backup.”

Roman wouldn’t, not with the size of the guy, the impression he gets, but. “You’re my guy,” Roman says, and thinks he catches the edge of a smile before Harry turns away to serve the guy a death glare.

“I like that better when you aren’t pointing it at me,” Roman says, and grins when Harry can’t smother a laugh.


End file.
